Yes, Your Grace
by ThisThatAndTheOther
Summary: A power struggle between the Duke of Crowborough and Thomas comes to a very dark conclusion that is heavy on the hurt and light on the comfort for Downton's footman. AU version of what could have happened Series 1, Episode 1. Warning! dub/con.


AN: EDIT 23/05/13 Changed the title from "Yes, My Lord" to "Yes, Your Grace" because I realised my research was in fact wrong and dukes are called Your Grace by the serving class whoops!

Hiya! I'm new to the Downton Abbey fandom and to writing fic. I thought I'd try my hand at both and see how it goes. I have four major things to mention before getting on with the story.

1. This story comes with a lot of heavy warnings for dub/con, so please be advised before you start reading. It got a lot darker than I originally planned, and I'm a little shocked that I wrote it.

2. This story exists in a sort of fantasy-bizarro world of s01e01 that is soooo close to being canon but just slightly off enough that I ask that you suspend your belief if things seem to happen out of sequence from the original.

3. This idea would not leave me no matter how much I asked, and so I thought that by writing it out, I'd be rid of it and be able to try some other plot bunnies. There are so many avenues to explore with Thomas!

4. I chose not to give the Duke of Crowborough a first name. I couldn't find an offical one, and any name I thought of sounded contrived.

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"Did you honestly think that I would let someone like you so close to me without any thought to what kind of threat you posed?" He shakes his head, "Thomas, really, I thought you were smarter than that."

The Duke circles the other man with a sad smile on his face. "I am the Duke of Crowborough, and you a mere footman."

Thomas gapes and looks anywhere but at his former lover. Though resorting to blackmail was never going to be a pleasant endeavour, this was not how he expected it would ever turn out. He isn't foolish enough to admit that this was purely business; he thinks he might say he even loves the Duke after the past summer's meetings. It makes his ears ring slightly thinking that the Duke wasn't as infatuated with him as he had first thought. Hearing that his own motives were so clearly obvious to the other man makes his mouth run dry.

He stares into the fire. The last of his letters are gone, shrivelled up into ash.

"No that would never do, Thomas. Allowing a footman to manipulate me into hiring him? After he reveals himself to be so devious and untrustworthy a character that he thinks nothing of blackmailing me with the things I wrote in my personal time?" The Duke's line of questioning was calm and quiet, concealing the undercurrent of antagonism brewing.

He yanks at Thomas' bowtie and pulls him close so that their faces are nearly touching and hisses, "You don't have that power, Thomas, over anyone."

He lets go of the fabric and grins a tight closed-mouth smile before composing himself.

"I–" Thomas scrambles to assemble some sort of answer.

"No," the Duke hushes him sternly, "it's not your turn to talk anymore."

"I accept only the most loyal and grateful servants into my employ, and I do admit that you never quite fit this bill." The Dukes continues his diatribe while pacing the room, leaving the footman to stand in its centre and awkwardly follow his movements with his eyes.

"Tonight, however, was especially illuminating upon your most sordid character, Thomas. And I shan't say I won't learn from it."

The Duke makes his way towards the door and turns the latch to lock it. Turning back towards Thomas, he leans against it and stares silently for a few moments. Thomas feels these as though they were hours and anxiously tries to see where it is all leading. He feels sweat begin to prickle along his hair line.

The Duke remains where he stands as he begins to speak again, "So you understand why I could never take you into my house and continue this," he gestures with his hand, "flirtation while worrying about you collecting evidence and lauding it over me at any chance of advancement."

Thomas feels as though the Duke's eyes are boring into his own and, mortified, stares just over his shoulder to the door.

"But presently, here we are! Your letters are burnt and if you went to anyone it would be your word against a Duke's." Here he twists his face into an almost apologetic way, as if to say '_I didn't make the rules'_. "And I think we both know how that would go."

The Duke takes a few steps towards Thomas before stopping. "I did so enjoy our time this summer together," he states abruptly with such longing that Thomas brings his eyes back to the Duke's. Perhaps Thomas had misjudged the Duke's feelings for him after all.

This train of thought is dashed from his mind when the Duke continues, "And blackmail is such an effective way to get what you want."

Thomas' eyes widen. _What does he mean?_ He thinks

"Yes," the Duke laughs, "I think the tables have turned. You see, _I_ still have all of those incriminating letters you wrote me. All I would have to do is go to your Lord Grantham as an abashed guest and tell him how his footman, young Thomas, has been pestering me with romantic notions, sending me inappropriate and delusional letters for months now."

"I am but a humble man and did not want to get him involved," he smiles, affecting a dialogue with the earl, "until this very forward footman molests me in my own room when dressing me for dinner. And this is just a step too far for my liking, Lord Grantham; I can't abide a man taking such liberties – certainly not one of such level, either."

Finally, Thomas finds his voice. "What do you want?" He is relieved to hear it sounds much more even and strong than he feels at the moment.

"Many things, Thomas, but for now I will be content with you taking your clothes off."

At Thomas' incredulous stare, the Duke continues, "I want to still be able to feel your body under mine and have it pliable against my own. I want to continue our liaisons as if nothing has changed for just one more night."

_He can't be serious._

"You can't be serious," Thomas scoffs.

"You'll find I am completely serious. And impatient."

"But– I–," Thomas bumbles through several thoughts at once. "You can't– ."

He raises a hand to run through his hair. He isn't even sure what he means. Nothing about this evening has gone as expected, and he certainly doesn't know what he wants anymore. Surely prolonging any involvement with the Duke can't bode well for anyone, but it isn't as though he could do much else. Lord Grantham would throw him out on his ear in a second, and Mr. Carson would gladly delight in personally removing Thomas from Downton. He closes his eyes. Everyone would know and finally despise him for what he truly is – probably get a laugh in at the expense of the unemployed, homeless queer.

Yes, it would be safer to go along with the scheme. _Even if it ends up in disaster, _Thomas thought sardonically, _at least I'd get a final lay out of it._ What he really needs is a smoke.

By now, the Duke had begun unbuttoning his own clothes, and Thomas made to follow suit.

"The bed," the other man suggests, now naked and pushing the footman towards it.

As Thomas sits upon the blankets, his partner follows him down with his head and initiates a kiss. It is rough and needy but not unlike some embraces they have shared in the past.

As the kiss deepens and softens, the Duke pushes Thomas until he is lying flat against the bed. Thomas pulls the Duke with him, who situates himself until his thighs are straddling Thomas and his cock is bobbing against the other. The footman smiles into their kiss as his hands roam the broad chest and waist of his partner, while the Duke's hands move to cradle Thomas' face. He can easily pretend this is just an extension of that wonderful summer, before any betrayal soured the relationship.

Their kiss is momentarily broken, leaving both men to gasp for air. Reaching down between them, Thomas lightly grasps the Duke's half-hard member and begins to stroke it, hearing the other moan. He presses his face forward and begins to kiss the other man.

Their tongues slide over each other, and Thomas is reminded of the Duke's heady taste before his hand is slapped away from its task.

The Duke rises onto his haunches. "Turn over," he all but growls, his voice husky with desire before he helps to flip Thomas onto his stomach.

The weight on the back of Thomas' thighs is heavy and grounding. A hand comes to rest on the small of his back. It disappears and is replaced by another, spread wide, and drags slowly down the whole of Thomas' back before following down over his backside, one finger ghosting over his crack. His whole body seems to tingle at this, and Thomas presses his face into the bed to prevent his smile from being too obvious.

The Duke's hand once against leaves his back for a few moments. Now both are placed on Thomas' inner thighs, pressing them apart enough for the Duke to nestle between them.

Suddenly, there is a warm and wet finger pressing against and teasing his hole, and Thomas tries not to squirm. Soon enough, this finger penetrates and he expels a puff of air through his nose. The Duke adds a second probing finger and begins to scissor them, slowly opening him up. It had been months since they did this, and Thomas knew he would require a lot of preparation to be comfortable.

No sooner did this thought cross his mind then the fingers leave and the Duke's other hand clamped over Thomas' mouth. Then he feels the other man slam into him, and his vision goes white.

He realises he had screamed only after the fact, as his yell was muffled by the hand gripped across his mouth. Thomas screws up his eyes in pain and continues to whimper quietly against his gag. Tears come unbidden and flow freely down his face. Meanwhile, the Duke remains motionless within while Thomas attempts to regain his breath.

This small mercy does not last long before the Duke begins slowly moving, his hand still on Thomas' mouth muting grunts and pants of pain. Once over the initial shock, Thomas becomes aware of the terrible burn he hasn't felt since his first misguided and under-educated foray into sex with another man – or boy, as they both were.

He can't believe the Duke would do something like this, even after their harsh words from before. His attempts at yelling obscenities sound distorted and unintelligible even to his own ears, seemingly more pathetic and pleading than he intended.

By now, the Duke has settled on a rhythm that seems to be tearing Thomas apart. He feels all but paralysed by the shock and pain, only able to grasp and twist the blankets in his hands for relief. Now that the thrusts are coming faster and harder, the Duke's hand leaves Thomas' mouth and moves with the other to seize his hips in an achingly tight grip. The footman presses his face into the bed in attempts to muffle the grunts that come involuntarily from his mouth.

Seemingly hours later, the Duke comes with a moan and collapses onto the man below. He lay there for a few minutes, letting his hot and fast breath tickle the back of Thomas' neck. With a grunt, he extricates himself from Thomas and rises from the bed.

Thomas remains lying there silently. He still can't believe what just happened. His mind is eerily blank. _Christ, what did just happen?_

He pushes himself up and moves to sit gingerly on the bed. Despite how much his bottom is burning at the moment, Thomas is content to sit there and stare blankly at the wall. He feels drained. He hopes aimlessly that he is not leaving any blood on the bed and giggles when that causes him to think of how he would explain the stain to Mr. Carson and the likely coronary that would ensue.

He is still sitting there when he hears the Duke pour water from a jug into his basin and begins to wash.

"At what time will you sound the dinner bell?" Time must have passed, as the Duke has come to stand in front of Thomas.

"Uh," Thomas has to pause to cough before continuing, "not for another hour." His voice is hoarse from screaming earlier. He still can't stop staring at the wall. The others would already have started their dinner by now, and he idly wonders why he thought this was worth missing the meal.

The Duke clears his throat loudly in an impertinent manner. Thomas finally lifts his head and raises his eyes to meet the Duke's and screws up his brow in confusion.

"Are you not forgetting something?" The Duke asks with a slight upturn to his lips. Thomas continues to frown, wracking his brain for an appropriate response. Has he failed to perform some sort of expected gesture? _God forbid he doesn't expect a token of gratitude after that_, Thomas thought with wry anger.

Thomas opens his mouth to question the other, when the Duke's face hardens. "Your place, Thomas. Do you not wish to conceal the true nature of our relationship – and your character – from the Crawleys? I suspect you do, and such you are still to think of me and call upon me as 'Your Grace'."

He reaches out with one hand and clasps the back of Thomas' neck. His hand is heavy and warm against Thomas' now clammy skin. His eyes crinkle barely at their edges as he squeezes once. "And you are still _just_ Thomas."

At this Thomas instantly drops his gaze to somewhere in the middle of the Duke's chest. He can feel his cheeks redden slightly, as equal parts hot shame and rage swirl in a maelstrom within his chest. The footman cannot feel any smaller under the Duke's patronising look, and he has to blink rapidly against the prickling of unshed tears. He'd be damned if the Duke saw him cry again.

Where the hand once was now burns as if branded to the skin, and Thomas wishes nothing more than to run from the room to scour his skin raw and rid it of any remaining mark. Thomas feels those cruel fingers again against his skin, this time wrapping themselves around his chin. The Duke tilts Thomas' head up so that they are once again eye-to-eye.

"And so…" He trails of beseechingly.

Thomas swallows thickly, "The dinner gong will ring in one hour, Your Grace." He can think of other choice words to call the man he once called his lover, but he doesn't risk it. As much as it pains him to think it, he knows the reason he refrains from doing so is not just for fear of losing his job. He is ashamed to concede that it is a fear of what would happen in this room before The Duke would leave to reveal to the Crawleys Thomas' secret. This man before him has changed and his character tarnished with a new malice that unsettles and scares Thomas.

"Very good. Now, clean yourself up. It wouldn't do to present yourself looking and smelling such as you do now." The Duke slaps a wet cloth he had previously used on himself to Thomas' chest with a smirk. While the raven haired man stood from the bed, staring at the cloth he now held, the Duke continued, "I shall like to visit the library in the meantime. You may return to dress me when the time comes."

Thomas turns to the basin containing the water already used by the other man and begins wiping his rapidly cooling body. He takes care to ring out the towel each time before running it down his chest and under his arms, paying special attention to his backside. Perhaps he exerts more force than necessary, as angry red trails are left in the cloth's wake. Thomas barely acknowledges this with vacant eyes as he tries to control his quickly rebelling body. His heart thunders so loudly against his ribs he swears the Duke, who is busy across the room, will hear it and mock him. His breath begins to come in short gasps in time with his heart as he pictures the Duke's condescending and merciless face in his mind's eye.

In an attempt to regain some semblance of restraint, Thomas sets his mouth in a severe line and breathes deeply through his nose and tries not to think of the weight of the other man's body on his.

_Whatever you do, don't be sick._

He drags the cloth painfully across his neck one last time before dropping it onto the nearby table. Cupping his hands under the water, Thomas propels it upwards to rinse his face. He takes a moment to drag the water further back into his dark hair in a concerted effort to tame the strands loosened from the Duke's ministrations. Thomas desperately wishes that he could borrow the other's pomade and quell the horrible cow lick that is starting to form, but he couldn't bring himself to ask anything of that man.

_This will have to do_, Thomas thinks to himself as he parts his hair and slicks it to the side. _I'll have a few moments to myself before I'm to be expected anywhere_.

He hopes, at least, and winces thinking of Carson catching him slinking into his room. Thomas can't bear to think of standing in front of the older man now, whose tolerance for Thomas is already practically non-existent. All of the heat and pressure that had built in his chest drops to his stomach at the thought, making him feel feverish and ill.

Thomas turns and quickly locates his livery in a crumpled heap from where he stripped not even a half hour before. He dons his uniform faster than he thought possible and lets out a long, even breath that is at odds with the turmoil he feels within. He catches the Duke staring appreciatively as he pulls at his lapels and manages to scowl. Though small, he counts this gesture as a victory.

Now, he just needs to be out of the room with as much pride left in tact as possible, and if he doesn't leave soon, he knows he will embarrass himself even further. Thomas frantically hopes it doesn't look like he is running for the door as he reaches for the handle.

"See you in an hour, Thomas." The Duke calls as the footman opens the door. Thomas barely edges out a 'yes, Your Grace' before he escapes into the hallway and downstairs.

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Thanks for reading! Reviews are warmly welcomed, as are concrit! This was banged out in a night, and I hope I caught all of the mistakes but all-nighters tend not to breed perfection.


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